'The ghost stays. It's a dramatic necessity.'
'You said it was a dramatic necessity in the last play.'
'Well, it was.'
'And in Please Yourself, and in A Wizard of Ankh, and all the rest of them.'
'I like ghosts.'
They stood to one side and watched the dwarf artificers assembling the wave machine. It consisted of half a dozen long spindles, covered in complex canvas spirals painted in shades of blue and green and white, and stretching the complete width of the stage. An arrangement of cogs and endless belts led to a treadmill in the wings. When the spirals were all turning at once people with weak stomachs had to look away.
'Sea battles,' breathed Hwel. 'Shipwrecks. Tritons. Pirates!'
'Squeaky bearings, laddie,' groaned Vitoller, shifting his weight on his stick. 'Maintenance expenses. Overtime.'
'It does look extremely . . . intricate,' Hwel admitted. 'Who designed it?'
'A daft old chap in the Street of Cunning Artificers,' said Vitoller. 'Leonard of Quirm. He's a painter really. He just does this sort of thing for a hobby. I happened to hear that he's been working on this for months. I just snapped it up quick when he couldn't get it to fly.'
They watched the mock waves turn.
'You're bent on going?' said Vitoller, at last.
e can tell this Fool that we'll do it, can we?' said Vitoller, his hand on the bag of silver.
And of course you couldn't go wrong with a good storm. And there was the ghost routine that Vitoller had cut out of Please Yourself, saying they couldn't afford the muslin. And perhaps he could put Death in, too. Young Dafe would make a damn good Death, with white makeup and platform soles . . .
'How far away did he say he'd come from?' he said.
'The Ramtops,' said the playmaster. 'Some little kingdom no-one has ever heard of. Sounds like a chest infection.'
'It'd take months to get there.'
'I'd like to go, anyway,' said Tomjon. 'That's where I was born.'
Vitoller looked at the ceiling. Hwel looked at the floor. Anything was better, just at that moment, than looking at each other's face.
'That's what you said,' said the boy. 'When you did a tour of the mountains, you said.'
'Yes, but I can't remember where,' said Vitoller. 'All those little mountain towns looked the same to me. We spent more time pushing the lattys across rivers and dragging them up hills than we ever did on the stage.'
'I could take some of the younger lads and we could make a summer of it,' said Tomjon. 'Put on all the old favourites. And we could still be back by Soulcake Day. You could stay here and see to the theatre, and we could be back for a Grand Opening.' He grinned at his father. 'It'd be good for them,' he said slyly. 'You always said some of the young lads don't know what a real acting life is like.'
'Hwel's still got to write the play,' Vitoller pointed out.
Hwel was silent. He was staring at nothing at all. After a while one hand fumbled in his doublet and brought out a sheaf of paper, and then disappeared in the direction of his belt and produced a small corked ink pot and a bundle of quills.
They watched as, without once looking at them, the dwarf smoothed out the paper, opened the ink pot, dipped a quill, held it poised like a hawk waiting for its prey, and then began to write.
Vitoller nodded at Tomjon.
Walking as quietly as they could, they left the room.
Around mid-afternoon they took up a tray of food and a bundle of paper.
The tray was still there at teatime. The paper had gone.
A few hours later a passing member of the company reported hearing a yell of 'It can't work! It's back to front!' and the sound of something being thrown across the room.